His was a heart of gold, held deep within his chest. He could have sold it a hundred times, bit by bit or all at once, but he never did. Not for food, nor for shelter. This man was secretive with his heart, and no one who passed the young vagabond on the street would have known the treasure within.
He traveled the roads with a carefree spirit, always humming to the flowers or making toys out of sticks and string. Whenever he passed a child, he handed them out, no charge ma’am. Sometimes he was gifted with good food or wine, and sometimes he was meanly booted from the towns he was resting in.
The Vagabond never stayed too long in one place, searching instead for the simple change a good walk around the world can bring. He learned to sleep in forests and atop bluffs. He found the churches, and the brothels, and the ferry boats that ran overnight. He learned to dress like the inhabitants of wherever he was, adopting turbans in the middle east, and going shirtless with the Amhara people of Ethiopia. In Paris his black attire was fashionable, and he was well taken care of there.
He made his own way by selling knickknacks he made himself. Sometimes he made something so useful or pretty that he could stay in one town for a month or two, teaching a youngster his technique. But he always moved on.
There were hard months for The Vagabond, the cold winter months in Ireland, when there was nowhere really to go but the Churches. Churches were fine and all for one night, but he couldn’t quite stomach their lectures and morals and strange dogmatic rituals. It was a warm enough bed in the rain, but after the rain stopped he always managed his goodbyes.
Never once did he sell his golden heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment